


coconut milk for the butterflies in your stomach

by winluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Sickness, author projects her own feelings for kita on atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: Atsumu has a strange meet-cute and falls in love with the same boy every year without fail. One sick evening and one christmas later, he finally gets him.(atsukita with a dash of osasuna)This work is a part of Atsukita Week 2020 for Day 6, with the prompt “sickness and comfort.”
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67
Collections: Atsukita Week





	coconut milk for the butterflies in your stomach

**Author's Note:**

> hello ~ i hope you'll enjoy reading this nearly as much as i enjoyed writing it :") i'm not really sure if this suits the prompt well but !!!

When he was six years old and a half, Miya Atsumu met Kita Shinsuke, with his black bangs that didn’t even graze his brows and his tear-struck angel eyes, after school in the little 7-Eleven right across the street. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. The golden rays of the sun were shining brightly right above Atsumu’s head. It was not love at first sight and there were no sparks when they first set eyes on each other. Atsumu was just a boy who didn’t know what to do and Shinsuke was just a boy who couldn’t find his grandmother.

Right outside the gate of their school, Atsumu met with his brother who complained he was getting hungry. “‘Tsumu, come  _ on _ ,” Osamu said, tugging at his sleeve. “I wanna get an onigiri before they run outta stock.” He dragged Atsumu despite his protests as they walked, the bottoms of their shoes echoing against the gravel. 

Osamu struggled to push the door but the moment he entered, he rushed to the racks of edible products and picked out more food than just the onigiri he was going on and on about a while ago. He had a small smile on his face, a smile of childish wonder that Atsumu found endearing at times although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. He sometimes found it  _ cute _ , even, when his brother got so excited to eat. He often wondered how his twin brother didn’t get fat at all when he ate enough for the two of them. Not just that, but he also had a passing thought how he was able to save enough of his weekly allowance to be able to eat so much.

Atsumu clicked his tongue as he watched Osamu pick out two onigiris and two classic custard puddings. He found it slightly embarrassing to not have enough yen to be able to afford anything on the racks. Osamu finally sat down on the seat across him and handed Atsumu his share. Atsumu carefully opened his onigiri as he set down his tub of custard pudding beside him. Osamu chewed happily on his onigiri, chomping on the tuna flakes, a contented smile on his face. There were no words said between them and Atsumu found himself getting lost in his thoughts as the burst of flavor from the pickled plum filling exploded on his tongue.

He found himself snapping back to reality when he spotted a small boy slouching on a chair, a pout on his lips as he hid half of his face behind the backpack that was nearly bigger than him on his lap. Atsumu blinked.  _ Was he… crying? _ Atsumu looked at Osamu, who furrowed his eyebrows and merely muttered a “What?” without even looking at what was behind him. 

Atsumu held a hand up and slowly waved at him. Osamu glanced at the boy behind him and set down his onigiri on the plastic packaging. He waved his hand too, although he was a bit more hesitant than his twin. Osamu whipped his head back and whispered, “Ya know him, ‘Tsumu? Who’s that?” 

Atsumu merely shrugged at his twin. “Nah _ , _ ” he said, not taking his eye off the smaller boy. “Never saw ‘im around here before.” Inwardly, Atsumu thought to himself that if the boy was someone from their school, he would surely remember him. 

The boy hid his face even more but he held up a hand shyly. He waved, and Atsumu found himself standing up to walk over to him. He plopped his custard pudding down on the table in front of him without a moment of hesitation. “Hey,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically meek and gentle. “Are ya okay? What’s wrong?” He took a seat beside him and caught a clearer glance at the boy’s face. His golden eyes, the color of honey illuminated by the sunshine, gaped right back at him.

The smaller boy was shivering from the cold air of the air conditioning and he was rubbing his hands together in a futile effort to generate warmth. Atsumu wished he had a jacket or something to keep the boy warm. “I-I got lost,” he said, his words barely understandable amidst his sobs, his little hands tightening their grip against his backpack. “I can’t find my granny.”

Atsumu hummed. He wasn’t so sure what to do with a boy who was crying in a convenience store like the world had ended before them, but he wondered if maybe some comfort in the form of food could go a long way. He offered some of his custard pudding to the boy wordlessly. The boy looked down at the tub then looked at him shyly before shaking his head. “No, really, it’s okay. You can ‘ave some. I can tell you’re hungry,” Atsumu said, a kind grin dawning on his lips. “C’mon now, don’t be shy.” He picked up his spoon and, without thinking, fed the boy some pudding. 

The boy chewed, a dust of pink tinging his cheeks. “Thank you,” he said, gulping it down. “Oh, um, may I ask what’s your name?” He sounded somewhat too formal for a lost little boy, although it was endearing.

“I’m Atsumu,” he said. “Miya Atsumu. I go to the school ‘round here.” He smiled. “Ya can call me ‘Tsumu, like everyone else does.” He, of course, had completely disregarded that it was a nickname reserved for his twin brother, his parents and his closest friends. Aran Ojiro, someone the twins looked up to, was the main reason for the moniker in the first place. For some reason, he felt a strange sense of connection between the two of them, enough to let him use his nickname.

“Shinsuke.” The boy smiled back at him, and Atsumu thought that he was brighter than the golden sunshine outside the window. “My granny calls me Shin-chan.”

As if on cue, a little old lady entered the store, panic and frustration clear on her face, her eyes searching the whole store. When she finally set her eyes on her precious grandson, the unadulterated worry vanished from her features and was replaced by a look of pure love and adoration. “Shin-chan, where’ve you been?” she said, her voice smooth and clear like the water of a river that you could bounce a pebble a few times on.

“Obaa-san!” Shinsuke called out. “I hadn’t been lost for too long. It’s okay.” He held his grandmother’s hand as they walked outside the door. He looked back at the twins and gave them a final wave. His gaze lingered on Atsumu, who smiled at him, and waved back.

When he was ten years old and a half, Miya Atsumu saw Kita Shinsuke, with his large honey eyes that most likely contained the whole solar system and the most adorable button nose Atsumu had ever set his eyes on, between the wooden pews at their local parish as he begrudgingly held his twin brother’s hand in his as praises were chanted by the choir. It was a cold, windy morning. A gust of wind billowed through Atsumu’s hair, framing the sides of his face like a portrait. It was not love at second sight, although Atsumu could feel his face becoming as warm as the hot ginger tea infused with a teaspoon of honey his mother used to make for him when he got sick or when the wind was too cold against his head. Again, there were no sparks between the short glance they shared. Atsumu was just a boy who felt lost in a world full of uncertainties and Shinsuke was just a boy who felt kind enough that day to share in Atsumu’s burden as a friend.

Osamu always wakes up earlier in the morning. Atsumu simply doesn’t understand how Osamu can be so cheerful and productive at just half past six on a weekend morning. He cooked them each a simple dish of vegetables, fried eggs and steamed rice. He served the dishes with a mandarin orange on the side. At this point, Osamu has somehow learned to cook a lot of things in such a short period of time via their mother’s cookbook while Atsumu was getting a bit left behind, the only things he can make with confidence being a collection of barely edible egg-based meals. 

Atsumu woke up groggily, his head spinning and his vision blurry, twenty minutes earlier after hearing all of the banging of the pots and pans Osamu was doing in the kitchen. He walked down the stairs sleepily, letting out a yawn. They ate in silence, both too deprived of sleep to think of something to talk about and both too hungry to keep their mouths empty. 

Atsumu finished first and ironed them a nice shirt each, just enough, appropriate for Sunday mass that morning but not too showy. It was a nice change from the usual shabby hand-me-downs from their father that they usually wore outside, not bothered enough to care about their outward appearance. The local parish was only a five minute walk, more or less, from their house and Atsumu thanked the weather for cooperating today because it barely crossed the line between hot and cold. It was cold enough not to make them sweat fervently but also warm-ish enough to keep them dry.

They arrived early enough to see that the place wasn’t full yet. They sat themselves down in an empty pew in the back, smiling and nodding politely at the elderly women who were looking at them for a second or two and probably wondering why such young boys were wandering alone without a chaperone. They shared a hymn book that was on the bench, recognizing all of the written songs and prayers because they had been going to the same church with their parents all their life.

The mass started sooner than later and Atsumu kept himself well-behaved despite his boredom. He found himself gaping at the massive chandelier hanging over their heads, impressed at how they had managed to maintain the architecture so well for over three hundred years. The high ceilings loomed above him and were decorated with images of saints that Atsumu could barely recognize. He couldn’t help but be impressed at the magnificence of everything inside the ceremonial establishment. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows and Atsumu set his gaze on a statue of Christ which seemed to be staring straight back at him

The homily took a bit longer than he was used to. The priest had a warm tone to his voice, so soothing that Atsumu found himself being lulled to a deep sleep. He did not, however, actually let himself doze off in the middle of a church service because that would be humiliating and unforgivably disrespectful of him to do so. After all, he had promised his mother to always go to church with Osamu so they would be showered with blessings, a sentiment that he didn’t exactly share. He didn’t really believe in the point of religion, because what was the sense of believing in something that failed to help him so many times? What was the sense of believing in something he had called out to in desperation but never answered him in times of need?

Atsumu met Shinsuke outside the church that day. He was with his grandmother as usual, his small soft hand tucked in her wrinklier ones. Osamu didn’t notice what Atsumu was looking at and clutched his hand as a cue for them to leave and go home already but Atsumu was frozen in his spot. Shinsuke’s eyes fell on Atsumu and Atsumu couldn’t help but feel so  _ small _ against the other boy’s calculating gaze. 

Shinsuke excused himself, his grandmother keeping an eye on him, and approached Atsumu casually. “Hello, ‘Tsumu,” he said, his voice calm and mellow, being what Atsumu envisioned as what a warm night next to the fireplace would sound like. “It’s nice to see you again. You… remember me, right?”

Atsumu wanted to say that of course, he remembered the boy crying in the middle of an empty convenience store. That day was still as clear as a diamond in the rough in his mind. Atsumu wanted to say that of course, since that eventful day, he had been looking for him in the neighborhood in case he could catch a glimpse of his golden eyes, pale skin and the small smile on his face that turned brighter around his gran. Atsumu wanted to say that he  _ had _ spotted him a few times in the marketplace but he was never able to say hello before Osamu dragged him off to buy vegetables. Atsumu’s thoughts wandered to Shinsuke as he was eating his favorite fatty tuna, natto and steamed rice meal, courtesy of his brother’s cooking, that evening.

“Oh, um, yes,” Atsumu said, suddenly speechless, crumbling against the pressure of having someone so intimidating yet so precious in front of him. “You said yer granny calls ya Shin-chan.” He racked his mind for something meaningful enough to say. “How... how are ya and yer grandmother?”

“We’re doing okay,” he said. “We just finished buying our groceries for the week.” Shinsuke dug in the burgundy plastic bag he carried and offered him a navel orange. “You fed me custard pudding that day. Take this as something as a “thank you” for the favor.”

Surely enough, Miya Atsumu found himself an unlikely friend in the smaller boy. They weren’t able to keep in touch because of their lack of phones or devices for communication at the time, but they found themselves meeting more often in the marketplace and the local library and the parish and random little corners and places scattered through their minute neighborhood.

When he was fifteen years old and a half, Miya Atsumu saw Kita Shinsuke, with his soft gray hair that Atsumu had always longed to run his fingers through, just to learn how smooth it was, and his bangs that had grown out a bit longer now and his straight calculating gaze that was like a high definition digital camera that Atsumu sometimes found himself becoming the subject of and his unreadable facial expressions that were just on the borderline of happy and angry and sad and calm, at the middle of the long, empty hallways of Inarizaki High School, the one school he and his twin had always set their hearts on. It was a burning hot school afternoon and the sun felt unkind that day, its once soothing golden rays now harsh against Atsumu’s head. It was not love at third sight (or whatever, he had lost count at this point) and there were no sparks when Shinsuke saw him that day. His eyes felt hot and he saw the stars when he closed them. Atsumu was just a boy who felt his head spinning that day and Shinsuke was just a boy who felt the world unravelling so fast in front of him and did not know what to do, for once.

The whole school day whizzed by Atsumu like the wind, just passing by him without him noticing how long it had been since he’d been away from home. He wanted to go home so bad that he started counting sheep, his mind trailing off to an unknown land. It was only around the third week of school and they were going through the much easier lessons. His teachers blabbered endlessly about adjectives and idiomatic expressions and earthquake precautions and new ways of solving math word problems, things he had learned since grade school and known so naturally like the back of his hand but he couldn’t possibly care less about anything right now when his head was pounding and his eyes felt like they were swivelling and he couldn’t focus on anything and his body felt so weak.

When they were finally outside for break, Atsumu took a deep breath like he’d run out of air. “‘Samu,” Atsumu whined that day, tugging on Osamu’s shirt sleeve, “I think I ‘ave a migraine.” Saying that what he felt was a migraine would be a severe understatement. His head felt like it would come off and his knees were giving up.

“C’mon, we’ll take ya to the infirmary,” Osamu said with a sigh while Suna Rintarou, walking beside Osamu, looked at the two of them with concern. Shinsuke walked past by them, a textbook in one hand. But Atsumu fainted, his knees gave up a little too quickly and the events went by too fast and he found himself in someone’s arms, which felt a little less sturdy than Osamu’s, which felt like they were built for receiving. These arms felt more like a pillow against his head...

Atsumu’s first thought upon waking up: _ Hmm. This is soft.  _ Atsumu’s second thought upon waking up:  _ What _ .

Atsumu blinked the sleep out of his eyes and, his eyes flicking across the room, noticed off-white walls, jars full of cotton balls and tall bottles of hydrogen peroxide. Shinsuke was seated on a chair beside Atsumu like he had been waiting for him all this time to wake up, his expressionless golden eyes staring at him. Atsumu was lying in one of the beds in the infirmary. “What are we going to do with you,” Shinsuke said with a sigh. 

Atsumu could barely speak, his throat dry. He was  _ parched _ . He opened and closed his mouth a few times, staying parted but never being able to say a word. He motioned for water and Shinsuke handed him a glass.

“Why do we keep meeting at weird places?” Shinsuke said, his voice barely above a whisper as usual, his eyes not meeting Atsumu’s own. He smiled this time though, a slow, soft one on the corners of his lips.

The next day, a weekend, Shinsuke visited Atsumu’s home to drop off some salty-sweet pickled plums his grandmother had picked out for him, a special treat for a sick person. Atsumu nearly cried in front of him at this great gesture of kindness, not used to anyone else taking care of him when he was sick beside his brother. 

“How are you feeling now?” Shinsuke said, calm and collected. “I visited you to make sure you’re eating well and drinking enough water. Get some rest, okay?”

Osamu walked in and, once he set eyes on the two of them, left without a word. He whistled as he walked. Atsumu’s cheeks flushed pink at the silent insinuation.  _ That brat!  _ Osamu was clearly thinking something was going on with him and Shinsuke. Not that he minded...

Atsumu stared at Shinsuke’s features, noticing the slight curl of his lashes, the way his lips looked so soft, the way his eyes gazed at him. He wondered, for a moment, if there was even the slightest possibility he felt something more than chivalrous friendship for the other boy. He managed to stutter, “I-I’m fine, Kita-san.” 

“Why do you call me Kita-san?” Shinsuke said, his head tilted a bit, his eyebrow raised. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Shinsuke before?” His words were not a reprimand, but Atsumu couldn’t help but straighten up.

“Okay, Shinsuke,” Atsumu said with a laugh. “What are ya doing here? I mean, ‘side from the pickled plums and all. Oh, and thank ya, by the way.” He rambled when he was nervous, and good grief, he could barely silence the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

“Oh, well, I was thinkin’ I could maybe help cook some food for you,” Shinsuke said. “Obaa-san told me the best way to heal a sick person is some good food.” He hesitated. “I’m not saying Osamu is a bad cook.”

Atsumu laughed again. “Nah,” he said, “I get what ya mean. It’s alright. I just hope this won’t take too much of your time. Ya gotta take care of yer granny too.”

Shinsuke hummed. “You should go rest in your room first. I’ll take care of things for now.” Atsumu couldn’t fall asleep knowing he had a visitor over, but he lied awake in his bed, thinking of everything between what to get Osamu for their shared birthday and what game to play on his phone once he got better because Osamu had confiscated it for the meantime. He thought about Shinsuke, his mind filled with his voice.

Time passed so quickly that he barely even noticed Shinsuke meekly entering the door, holding a bowl in his hands. “I hope you like it,” he said sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure what to make so I just made you a little snack my obaa-san makes me whenever I get sick.” 

The dish was a little warm, but electrifying to Atsumu’s fingers. It was made of sweet, sticky rice, kernel corn, granulated sugar and a  _ lot _ of coconut milk. Atsumu felt his heart dissolving as he realized it was a very familiar dish to him, so close to his heart, that he nearly cried.

“Kita-san—Shinsuke,” Atsumu said, his voice cracking. “How’d ya know I love coconut milk?” He looked at Shinsuke with childlike fascination, and maybe even something more, as he said it. If the old saying that food is the key to a man’s heart was true, then surely Shinsuke was the chosen bearer of the golden key.

And so, the evening passed as they watched the sun set in the window in Atsumu’s room, the sky turning mesmerizing shades of pinks, peaches and grapefruits, until it was time for Shinsuke to go home. Atsumu told his twin about the dish Shinsuke made for him.

“Coconut milk rice pudding,” Osamu whistled. “Just like Mama used to make.” He said it in a wistful, nostalgic manner, sort of like he was missing someone that would never be able to come back anymore, no matter how many shooting stars he wished upon and no matter how hard he prayed in the mass they attended.

When he was eighteen years old and a half, Miya Atsumu saw Kita Shinsuke, with the scent of his coconut shampoo that always lingered in his soft hair that felt like the fur of a thousand sheep and his eau de cologne that was always subtle in its musky scent and never suffocating, unlike the other boys in his school who practically marinated in their Axe body sprays, and his face that had matured by now but still had its endearing, innocent and childish features that you’ll see when you truly peer at him carefully and his eyes that captured the golden glow of the sun, always bright and warm on his face in a sense that was comfortable and never causing him fatigue. It was a cold, blistering night before the day of Christmas and Atsumu was all dressed up in the red and green ugly Christmas sweater that Suna got the two of them as a gift. It was not love at whatever sight. Atsumu saw Shinsuke a lot by now considering that they attended the same high school but he could never get used to how lovely he was or how  _ pretty _ he looked. There were no sparks whenever they shared little glances here and there. There were no sparks whenever they brushed fingers. There were no sparks whenever they spoke to one another. But whenever he looked at Shinsuke, there was always a sense of longing, a sense of  _ wanting _ , but never in the greedy sense that he wanted to win something, like a game, and get a prize for it, but more in the sense that he wanted to have him and treasure him. He never understood why. Atsumu was just a boy who had gotten confused about his sudden feelings that had always been buried deep inside but he didn’t notice and Shinsuke was just a boy who was sure enough, too sure of his feelings, that he went ahead.

Atsumu whistled as he fluffed out the Christmas decor, feigning an impression of productivity, even when there was nothing left to do because they had already laid out the gifts and decoration a month or so ago. He wandered around the house, checking if there was anything he could spiff up a little bit before their chosen guests arrived. Suna Rintarou, a very  _ close  _ friend of Osamu, was already here, of course. It was not so much a matter of punctuality or politeness but because he wanted to spend time with his favorite Miya. Atsumu could hear some strange noises and a squeaking of the bed and he could hear Suna’s loud grunts, possibly of frustration, as he stepped closer to their room.

“‘Samu,” Atsumu drawled as he entered the room. “As yer big brother, I took it upon myself to remind ya to always use pro—” His eyes dawned upon the two of them, who were splayed out across the bed and holding their phones, their fingers swiping back and forth. He stopped in his tracks. “What are ya _ doing. _ ”

“Playing 8-ball,” Osamu deadpanned. “What did ya think we were doing?” He narrowed his eyes. “And for the record, it was only, like, an eighteen second difference.” He said it so matter-of-factly almost like he felt that it was the bigger deal in the situation right now. The Miya twins needed to get their priorities straight.

“An eighteen second difference would matter a lot in a track race, ya know.” Atsumu immediately jumped to defend himself. “Well, I kept hearing loud noises and it’s not  _ my _ fault I jumped to that conclusion,” he said, averting his eyes from Suna who was smirking at him.

“Yeah, but life ain’t a race,” Osamu countered, and as if his remark wasn’t enough, he immediately followed it up with, “Yer just getting paranoid ‘cause you’re still a virgin, ‘Tsumu.” He said it in an infuriating way that he wasn’t even boasting but simply stating the facts of life.

Atsumu let out a scandalous gasp. “Am not!” Atsumu defended before retracting. Well, Osamu was right _.  _ And perhaps he had a point. “Oh, well, so what?”

“You just don’t have enough balls for it, Miya,” Suna said with a shit-eating grin on his face. His words begged the question,  _ how many balls, exactly, does an adult human male need to have? _ “You haven’t even confessed to that guy you obviously want so bad.”

“How’d ya know I like someone?” The implication of his own words dawned on him. “Wait, I didn’t mean that I actually like someone.” It was far too late to go back, judging by Osamu trying to hide the smile on his face and Suna nonchalantly going back to swiping on his phone. Atsumu held his head up high, acting extremely dignified. “So what if I haven’t confessed? At least I won’t get humiliated if they ever reject me.” He said it with a confident air around him, although he had been suddenly struck with the possibility that Shinsuke might reject him and that he might not be interested in men.

A few hours passed like they were nothing, with Suna and Osamu laying around the couch and acting like the lovebirds they were, Atsumu running around suddenly nervous about the guest they were having over for Christmas Eve dinner, Osamu baking chocolate chip cookies in a rush while Suna was looking at him in an affectionate manner that looked absolutely  _ disgusting _ to the bystander Atsumu who secretly wished to have something similar and reaching for the measuring cups and ingredients. Finally,  _ finally,  _ as if Atsumu had been waiting for a day and not just a couple of hours, Shinsuke arrived, his grandmother holding his hand. He was dressed in a simple gray shirt and cream pants and a cerulean scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Hello,” Shinsuke greeted, bowing formally at all of them who straightened up immediately after lounging around all afternoon. “Thank you for having us over.”

Atsumu bowed, gesturing for them to take a seat on the couch, glaring at Osamu and Suna who were taking up all the space before switching back to a soft smile. He did all of that in a span of a few seconds. “No, it’s our pleasure, really. I hope ya enjoy the food.”

Suna whispered in Atsumu’s ear once he sat down beside them. “Get your man, ya fool,” he said, to which Atsumu replied with, “Oh, I will. Watch me, Rintarou.”

The dinner was a simple feast for the lot of them and yet absolutely scrumptious, courtesy of Osamu, whom Atsumu secretly called the cooking boy wonder. The food consisted of some Japanese traditional food, fatty tuna, onigiri and sushi that Osamu personally wrapped up, potato salad, pieces of wagashi that Suna brought over, and a Japanese shortcake Atsumu bought from the bakery just a few minutes away from their home.

“Thank you for the good food and for having us over today,” Shinsuke began to say, the softest smile on his face as he spoke. “We don’t really celebrate Christmas all that much because it’s just the two of us at home, but you all made this one very special.” Atsumu could feel his heart soften at the thought. He was suddenly grateful that he had thought up the idea to have them over, instead of spending the whole night watching Home Alone 2 and a bunch of cheesy Christmas films.

“Wait, Shinsuke,” Atsumu said as Osamu looked over at them. “I have something to tell ya. Uh, just the two of us, please.” He smiled sheepishly at Shinsuke’s grandmother. “I’ll have ‘im back very quickly, Kita-san.”

Atsumu took him to the living room, quickly beckoning for Osamu and Suna to stop gawking at them and do something else for a while. 

“Are you hiding something?” Shinsuke said the word so gently, so softly, in one short breath that Atsumu nearly missed it. “What do you want to tell me? What is it that’s so private that you don’t want obaa-san to hear?” He said it, not as a reprimand, but teasingly innocent.

“Huh? No.” Atsumu sighed. “Yes.”

“What is it?” Shinsuke prodded. “Make up your mind.”

Atsumu was flustered. “Here’s the thing, I really like ya, Kita-san, Shinsuke, Shin-chan, whatever you want me to call ya.” He took a deep breath. “I think I’ve liked ya for a very long time. Probably since the day I first saw ya, but I just didn’t know it. Yeah, I just wanted to tell you that, but it’s okay if you don’t like me back—”

“What if I told you that I feel the same?” Shinsuke said, interrupting him, his voice gentle, the same voice one would use when talking to a child. “I’ve always known I felt something for you. I've liked you since the day I met you, ‘Tsumu. So, will you please be my boyfriend?”

_ Boyfriend.  _ The words rang in Atsumu’s ears and he couldn’t say a word but he nodded his head several times, until Shinsuke finally leaned in, on his tip-toes, and pressed his lips against Atsumu’s. It was soft, gentle, sweet, perfect for what he imagined the smaller boy to taste like. It lasted only a few seconds, but the taste of Shinsuke’s lips lingered on Atsumu’s mind. “I gotta go now. Bye, bye, I hope you all have a lovely Christmas!” he called out to the three of them, but his golden eyes were only on Atsumu as he spoke.

“Congrats, I wasn’t expecting that,” Suna remarked to Osamu, who had intertwined their fingers together while chewing on a left-over chocolate chip cookie. “Your brother finally grew some balls, ‘Samu.”


End file.
